Pesky’s job isn’t a glorious one, but an important one, a necessary and needed one. He doesn’t patrol the deep ways keeping the things out from below, or guard the gates that protect from the odd surface dweller’s raiding parties. Pesky tends no great fungal garden nor does he hunt for moles, badgers or sweet-worms, no; he keeps the light. He tends the fireflies and the lightning bugs, raises the glow worms and the moon moths.
Pesky breeds them and raises them, and with those that can be trained he does that as well. He keeps the city lit, and the tunnels, and mine shafts, every corner and every room of every home, lit by Pesky’s friends. He breeds them big and he breeds them smart, he even taught them to respond to music. They know there is one tune for light and another for dark; he trained some to make light with the movement of the music at gatherings and taverns. With a single loud tune Pesky could make the whole city dark, his job is an important one.

Reborn, never to be the same... When a phoenix dies, self immolating, it rises from the ashes blackened as a raven. It's feathers, once fiery, now ebony with the secrets of death. Ravens too are immortal, never to die of old age, though they can be killed. The ember of what they once were still dwells within them and one in a hundred raven eggs will hatch as a phoenix...